


Tell Her (you've got nothing to lose)

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Love Confessions, i cannot underestimate how fluffy this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: “No, it’s not that, I…” he looked up at her broad smile - too sincere to be a faked customer service simper. And then it all spilled out in a rush. “I bought the last ticket on this flight to go and tell my friend I’m in love with her. On Christmas Eve.”Jaime's in love with Brienne. And at Christmas, you're supposed to tell people you love them - right? Even if it means abandoning your terrible family on Christmas Eve, booking the last seat on a flight to Tarth and spending several hours driving around the city looking for them. He can only hope that Brienne loves him back.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 23
Kudos: 133





	Tell Her (you've got nothing to lose)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahtarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahtarth/gifts).



> Did I basically just lift a scene from _Love, Actually_ , my favourite Christmas film, and make it Braime? Maybe. A christmas gift for the wonderful Sarahoftarth over on tumblr :)

Jaime rubbed absent-mindedly at the space where his hand once was, wincing at the sharp, aching tug that was shooting all the up to his elbow. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

Brienne was watching him with big, worried eyes. 

“Ah,” he stuttered, “Yes - I mean, no, it’s just…” he sighed. “Only when it’s cold, you know?” 

Brienne raised her own hand, distractedly pressing at the space between her neck and her shoulder. 

“Yeah,” she said, “I know.” 

Jaime pulled his coat tighter as they made their way across the road towards the high street, trying to avoid colliding with the hundreds of people who had also, it appeared, left their Christmas shopping till the very last moment. 

“Why don’t you wear the hand?” Brienne was saying, twisting her scarf tighter around her neck. “Surely that would help?” 

“That thing?” Jaime snorted, “I refuse. I don’t know what my father was thinking…” 

“He was probably thinking that you needed a prosthetic and he had the money to provide one.” 

“Hah!” Jaime shoved his hands into his pockets, “This is the privilege of having a father who isn’t an intolerable bastard, Brienne. _Your_ father may have thought that, but mine? No, it’s a fucking useless status symbol.” 

“Does that mean you’re crossing him off the Christmas list?” Brienne teased, raising her eyebrows. 

“He’s not been on my list since I was fifteen. What do you buy the man who has everything? _Literally_.” 

She laughed, and he continued, trying to turn the conversation away from his father. 

“Look, you go home tomorrow and I intend to squeeze every last drop of good advice from you before you do. No one else around here has any sense.” 

“I’m still not sure why you seem to think I’ll be able to help you choose presents for the kids, though.” 

“You’re good at this sort of thing!” 

“Jaime, I’ve not even met them!” 

“Yes, well.” 

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just ask Cersei what they wanted, or asked her to come with you…” 

Jaime whirled on her. “Because I don’t _want_ to spend all fucking day with Cersei, I want to spend all day with—” 

He stopped himself before he could finish that sentence, looking deliberately at the ground. It was just the icy chill in the air that was making Brienne’s face flush like that - nothing more. 

“Fine,” she said, finally. “Fine. Who first?” 

“Myrcella,” said Jaime, quickly. “She likes, gods, I don’t know. Dolls?” 

“Jaime!” 

“What?” 

“She must be fourteen, at least. Honestly.” 

“So what do you suggest?” 

“Something low-key, but nice. Perhaps some make-up? Eyeshadow, something sparkly. No concealer or foundation,” Brienne continued, “that’s just bullshit marketing. Or jewellery? You could get her a few bits and pieces, put it together in a box for her…” 

Jaime watched, in awe. “How the hell do you know these things?” 

Brienne shrugged. “I’m good at presents. What about Tommen? Is he still into animals?” 

“I think so, yeah.” 

“Okay, so—” 

Jaime was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. “Oh, oh! How about a—” 

“Jaime, we _cannot_ get him a pet.” 

Not so brilliant, then. He wondered how she knew what he’d been about to suggest. 

“What do you mean we can’t get him a pet?” 

“You can’t give someone a pet for Christmas! Especially not a child! It’s irresponsible and unfair to the animal and—” 

“No!” Jaime cut her off, “I mean, what do you mean: _we_ can’t get him a pet?” 

Brienne really _was_ blushing now. 

“ _You_ can’t get him a pet,” she corrected herself, far too late. “Anyway.” She shifted her shoulders and strode on, clearly trying to regain control over the conversation. “Come on. _You_ may want to spend all day shopping, but _I_ don’t.” 

Jaime grinned, jogging to keep up with her as she strode into a shop. 

~ 

The King’s Landing City Airport was packed, as it always was this time of year. Jaime and Brienne made their way through the shove of people - families saying tearful goodbyes or excited greetings, children rushing about wearing violently christmassy jumpers, old people tutting at everyone else. 

The wheels of Brienne’s small suitcase clacked against the tiled floor as they walked, making Jaime wince. 

Her flight wasn’t for a couple of hours, so they stopped at one of the small chain coffee shops on the other side of security, taking a table near the edge of the shop, quietly watching the people rushing past. 

“So,” said Jaime, willing himself to sound casual, “are you helping your dad with the pub this year?” 

Brienne smiled, stirring the sugar into her coffee. “Of course,” she said, tapping the spoon on the side and carefully wrapping it in a napkin, “It’s odd... I’ve done it every year since, you know, since mum… and I love doing it, and I’ll do it for as long as he needs, but… it feels different, this year, somehow. Better? You know?” 

_Yes_ , Jaime wanted to shout, _yes, I do know!_

“Yeah,” he said instead, peering at his own black coffee. “It’s like… you know when you’re a kid and everything feels… gods…” 

“Christmassy?” 

“Exactly. When everything is soft and warm and…” he swallowed. “...happy.” 

Brienne smiled, sipping at her drink. “Are you going to your dad’s this afternoon?” 

Jaime sighed. “Unfortunately. Going back to the apartment, grabbing my suitcase and heading straight back out.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” 

“Apparently not. You know the offer’s still there,” he added quickly, feeling his face flush. “If you want to stay?” 

Brienne snorted. “With _your_ family? Are you utterly mad?” 

Jaime shrugged. “Or just with me.” 

Her hand twitched on the tabletop, and for a moment he thought she was going to reach towards him. She didn’t, though, merely drumming her fingers on the table. 

“Ah, you know how it is, Jaime. They need me back home. You could always visit us...?” 

It _was_ a question - a request. He wanted to. Gods, how he wanted to. But he thought of his father, his sister - the fallout of making the choice he truly wanted. 

“Or would your family kill you if you missed Christmas?” She said, eyebrows raised. 

“Fuck,” he sighed, “they would. I’d be cut out of the will and everything.” 

“Maybe it’d be worth it?” 

_Hah_. Brienne didn’t get it. By all accounts, her family seemed lovely - her father not the sort of man to send the dogs after her for missing one Christmas out of dozens. 

“Maybe,” he said instead, trying not to dwell too much on the week ahead of him. 

When they’d finished their coffees, Brienne keeping one constant, nervous eye on the time, they headed towards the check-in desk. The queue was short, for once: apparently very few people were heading to Tarth this time of year. 

“Well, then.” Brienne let go of her suitcase and turned to face Jaime, looking unsure. “This is goodbye, I suppose.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“I’ll come back to visit in the new year, alright? Or you can come to Tarth, Dad’s obsessed with New Year, he always has a party… if you can get away from your family, of course.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Right.” 

Brienne shuffled awkwardly, for a moment, fiddling with her hands, and then - in a move that seemed to shock them both - stepped forward in a quick movement and wrapped her arms around Jaime in a tight, off-kilter hug. 

Jaime’s first instinct was to freeze, belatedly realising that he should be hugging her back, suddenly at a loss for what to do with his hands. He returned the embrace, resisting the urge to pat her on the back, hyper aware of her hands pressing into his back, of _his_ hands on hers. It was the most awkward, graceless hug he’d ever been a part of. 

And the best, too. Brienne felt good beneath his arms, felt _strong_. Being wrapped in her arms made him feel absurdly safe. 

Finally, she broke away, face flushed. 

“I’ll… see you next year, then.” 

“Yeah. Yes. I… Goodbye, Brienne.” 

“Bye, Jaime.” 

And with that, she left him, making her way to the desk. He watched as she put her single suitcase on the conveyor belt, chatting happily to the woman serving her, fiddling with boarding passes and her passport. Jaime was aware that he was hovering, watching her, waiting for her to go. 

She thanked the woman behind the desk, shoved her passport back into her pocket, and was about to head through the turnstiles. 

No. _Fuck_ \- no. 

He didn’t know what made him do it. 

“Brienne!” 

He rushed forwards just as she made it to the other side of the turnstiles and she spun, startled, to look at him. 

“Jaime?” 

_I - fuck - stay. Don’t go. Take me with you. Fuck, Brienne, I lo—_

He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t make himself say those three disastrous words out loud. 

He sighed, defeated. 

“Merry Christmas, Brienne.” 

She gave him a soft smile - almost sad. 

“Merry Christmas, Jaime.” 

And then she turned, and she walked away, and she was gone. 

~ 

Jaime heaved the enormous suitcase into the boot of the black cab and slammed the lid shut. It was a ridiculous size for a seven day visit, but even then he knew that his father and sister would make pointed jabs throughout the holiday that he wasn’t dressed well enough, or his chosen outfits were unsuitable for whatever relentless social obligation they’d dragged him to. 

He placed the presents, which were squeezed into a trio of enormous paper bags, into the backseat before sliding in next to them and slamming the door shut, pulling on his seatbelt as the driver pulled away. 

He looked down at the neatly wrapped presents occupying the seat beside him. The neatness was, he was forced to admit, not his own work. After spending longer than either of them had intended scouring the high street for suitable gifts for the children, he and Brienne had returned to his apartment and - somehow - he’d convinced her to help him wrap them, bribed with the promise of Dornish takeout and a bottle of wine. 

Brienne was, of course, exceptionally skilled when it came to wrapping presents. Jaime had vaguely intended to use the old paper he was _sure_ was still tucked away in the back of his wardrobe, but she’d convinced him not only to pick up two new rolls, but also ribbons, bows, and a brand new tape dispenser. 

He had to admit, even if it pained him, that she’d been right to do so: especially after he’d turned his haphazardly organised drawers inside-out looking for his own roll of tape which had mysteriously vanished. 

At least Jaime could say that he’d _tried_ to do the wrapping, before Brienne had taken over from him with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. He’d been quickly relegated to the role of holding - holding bits of tape, holding down flaps of paper, holding ribbons in place. She was being awfully diplomatic about the whole thing - barely even teasing him. 

“I know you’re being patient with me because of my hand,” he’d said, “but I’ll have you know I was just this shit at wrapping _before_ I lost the hand. In fact, I might be _better_ at it now.” 

He’d caught her off guard and she’d laughed at him, one of her huge guffaws that made his stomach flip. After that, she was suddenly back to her teasing - giving him far less leeway when he once again let go of the golden ribbon and sent it spiralling back against her hands. 

They’d gotten through the first roll surprisingly quickly, the spent tube rolling across the floor as Brienne used the last sheet to wrap a book they’d picked up for Tommen. Jaime had watched her, distracted in folding the paper just so, and slowly reached down, grabbed the tube, and— 

She’d been too quick for him, swinging the second tube up over her head and blocking the blow. 

And then it had dissolved into a fight - and then _another_ , when the second tube had been used up too and they’d been forced to wrap the remaining presents in what Brienne clearly thought was Jaime’s inferior paper. 

The takeout had arrived midway through a dramatic sword fight, and Jaime had answered the door with his hair on end, red-faced and breathless with the empty paper tube held beneath his arm, bent at a right-angle where he’d landed a particularly fierce blow on Brienne’s head when she wasn’t looking. 

When Jaime had left the apartment that afternoon, checking each room to make sure everything was switched off and he’d not left anything behind, it had been oddly quiet. He’d pulled on the absurd prosthetic hand his father had arranged to be made for him with a sort of formality, peering around his grey, empty bedroom. It felt like the end of something, although he wasn’t sure what. 

As the cab pulled away from his apartment he remembered what Brienne had said before she left - that this year, somehow, everything felt brighter and more alive. He’d agreed with her at the time, but now that little spark had been puffed out, the sparkles dulled once more. 

He thought ahead to the next few days. It was four days before Christmas, plenty of time for parties and celebrations with his father’s various rich friends and contacts. It wasn’t all bad, he reminded himself: the wine would be good and the food would be exceptional, and many of his father’s friend’s children were at least _tolerable_. 

Plus, it would be good to spend a week with Tyrion again. Even though there was no love lost between his brother and his father - and his sister, come to think of it - the sheer power of tradition forced them all under the same roof for five full days. With any luck, he and Tyrion could spend most of their time getting pissed and watching old movies on TV. 

After what felt like an age, the cab finally began the journey up the long drive towards his old home and Jaime felt himself sinking down into his seat. There was a squirming in his stomach that reminded him unpleasantly of being a child. He hoped that the gifts he’d brought with him would be deemed good enough: this was the first year in several that he’d actually put any amount of effort into them. 

It was a testament to Brienne’s patience with him that the only reason he had even chosen to put effort in was because of her. He realised, with a hot stab of guilt, that despite dragging her around King’s Landing looking for exactly the _right_ book for Tommen, he’d completely forgotten to buy Brienne a gift herself. _Fuck_. 

The taxi’s wheels crunched on the gravel as they pulled up to the wide front doors. Immediately, they opened. He was half expecting to see his father standing there, but was instead greeted by the housekeeper, who made his way across the drive to open the door for him. 

Jaime had not missed this. 

The housekeeper waved to a new member of staff - barely older than a teenager - lingering in the doorway, who hurried down the steps towards the cab. Jaime grabbed the bags of gifts and the new teenager reached into the boot for his suitcase, dragging it along the drive and back into the house. 

When he finally made it inside, Cersei was waiting for him, poised in the foyer like a perfect, golden statue. 

“So you finally made it,” she said, pointedly. 

Jaime dumped the bags next to his feet. “I had… something to do this morning. Where’s father?” 

She shrugged. “Upstairs, somewhere. Last few emails to send and forms to agree before the holiday. What were you doing this morning?” 

He considered, for a moment, lying. “I was dropping Brienne off at the airport.” 

“She couldn’t manage to find it by herself?” 

“I wanted to see her off,” he said, ignoring the barb. 

“How sentimental. You’re going soft, Jaime.” 

Jaime gave a non-committal shrug. He probably was. 

“Am I in my old room?” He said, gesturing to the bags at his feet and the suitcase left at the bottom of the sweeping staircase. 

Cersei rolled her eyes at him. 

“Of course not,” she snapped, like it was obvious. “We moved Tommen in there _months_ ago. You’re in the second spare.” 

The second spare, Jaime knew, was the smaller of the two rooms. 

“Right,” he said, “Okay. I’ll just…” 

He gestured to the bags at his feet, but Cersei stepped forwards before he had a chance to grab them. 

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, quickly. “We’ll have them taken up. Unless you want to get changed?” 

Jaime looked down at his t-shirt and jeans, then back to his sister’s outfit - a floor-length red dress, complete with shoes that probably cost more than the entirety of Jaime’s suitcase. He could probably argue that at least the jeans were designer, but he doubted she would care. 

He was starting to doubt if _he_ cared, either. 

“No,” he said, finally. “I think I’m good.” 

She gave him another quick look up and down before sweeping from the room. Not sure what else to do, he followed her. 

~ 

It didn’t take long before Jaime found himself mentally counting down the days before he could go home, even if it _was_ to his empty apartment. The four days between now and Christmas really had been packed with events - brunches, dinners, evening parties. Christmas day, he knew, would be a low-key, self-aware affair full of fine food and drink, and then the day after he’d be bundled into a jumper and sent out once more to mingle. 

He was exhausted just at the thought of it. As soon as he’d followed Cersei into the spacious living room and perched on the end of one of the long, white sofas a coffee had been pressed into his hands and she’d started to chat at him. It was all wind - talking about neighbours and partners and the business. He asked about the children, and she waved him off with a flippant comment about them being well, and bored at school. 

Tyrion, it soon became clear, wouldn’t be arriving till tomorrow. Even that was too soon, according to Cersei, but there were simply so many events to attend that it wouldn’t do for him to be conspicuously absent. 

Jaime wondered if that sentiment also extended to their father, who was still hidden away upstairs. 

In fact, he didn’t see his father for several hours - not until that evening’s meal, where he finally deigned to show his face. If Jaime had been expecting any sort of emotional greeting, he would have been disappointed, but his father was just as chilly as he’d grown accustomed to. 

He sat, barely listening, as his father detailed the itinerary for the next week, and wondered what Brienne was doing. 

~ 

The next few days passed in predictable festive boredom. At least the arrival of Tyrion, late the next day, meant he had someone to actually _talk_ to, and Tyrion only had one thing on his mind. 

Frustratingly, it was the one thing on _Jaime’s_ mind too, and Tyrion’s constant questioning was making it difficult to continue to ignore. 

“So you sent her home, then?” He asked, as they both leaned on the balcony of one of the upper rooms, watching the festive lights turn on on the street below the first night Tyrion had arrived. 

Jaime’s first instinct was to lie. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, sullenly. 

“Oh, of course,” Tyrion teased, a beer in his hand. “Who could I possibly be talking about? I cannot _guess_ who you’ve been spending all your time around, and who, I’ve noticed, is _absent_ from the traditional Lannister festivities…” 

“You know as well as I do that her being here would be a disaster.” 

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “So you _did_ send her home.” 

Jaime resisted the urge to kick him. “I’m not talking about it.” 

Tyrion put on his best, faux-disappointed expression. “How sad. I suppose I’ll have to listen to father talking about stocks instead… Although I have to admit, Jaime, you’re being awfully cruel. Keeping such tantalising gossip away from the only person in this damned household who won’t judge you for it.” 

“There’s no gossip.” 

“No?” Tyrion turned to face him, refusing to break his gaze. “So I suppose you’re _not_ disastrously in love with her, then?” 

Jaime froze, his beer halfway to his lips. He had several options. He could ignore Tyrion. He could walk away. He _could_ actually kick him. 

He opened his mouth, fully intending to tell his brother to fuck off. 

Instead, he told him everything. 

~ 

The Christmas Eve meal was almost as important as the day itself in the Lannister calendar, and Jaime had been forced to dress up for what would, in truth, be a very poorly attended event. He pulled on his suit with some difficulty over the golden hand, peering at himself in the mirror. 

His hair, he noted, was still shaggy and unruly. He hadn’t had a chance to get it trimmed, and after his sister’s pointed comments about how untidy it was he was unsure if he wanted to. 

No. That wasn’t quite right. Her jabs made him _desperate_ to cut it all off, to be allowed back into her favour, but it wouldn’t be enough. He had to keep telling himself that: had to stop himself from slipping into old habits. 

The suit, Jaime thought, would have been an unnecessary extravagance for a simple family meal, but his father had arranged a cocktail party afterwards, and there wouldn’t be time to change. The sheer volume of these little events hadn’t passed Jaime by, nor had the number of _suitable women_ his father had introduced him to while his sister had watched from afar with acidic interest. 

He just had to get through the meal, and then he could go _mingle_. It meant telling the story of his hand a dozen times over, but at least he wouldn’t be stuck in any more smalltalk with his father. 

By the time he made his way downstairs, the others were waiting for him - all dressed in finery. Even the children were paraded in, both dressed in outfits worth thousands of dragons apiece, before being shooed away into the other room in which they would be eating, and later, entertaining the younger children of some of their guests. 

It was going well, all things considered. Surprisingly well. The conversation was muted but polite, the food good, Jaime’s wine glass never quite empty. 

Until his father looked up at him across the table, a stoic, deliberately unreadable expression plastered across his face. 

“So,” he said, without breaking eye contact, “you’re finally free of that woman, I see.” 

Jaime bristled. “Brienne,” he said. 

“Indeed.” 

“I dropped her off at the airport before coming here.” 

“Hmm.” Tywin was clearly keeping his opinion on Brienne behind his teeth. 

It was Tyrion who spoke next, while reaching for the bottle of wine to refill his glass. 

"Remind me what she's doing for Christmas, won’t you, Jaime?" He said, all innocence. 

Jaime glared at Tyrion across the table. Tyrion grinned at him and took a long sip of wine, a grin on his face. 

"Oh, yes, _please_. I'm sure it's _riveting_." Cersei rolled her eyes, pushing her food listlessly around her plate. "I love hearing how the poor unfortunates spend their holidays." 

"I really don't think—" 

"Go on." Tywin was staring at him, now. Jaime lowered his gaze. 

"Well…" He sighed, "her father owns a chain of pubs on Tarth. From what she said, they… _he_ opens them up on Christmas Day, puts on a meal for, you know. Homeless people, poor people, lonely old guys…" 

Cersei snorted. "What nonsense. Pathetic virtue signalling, of course." 

Jaime glared at her. "You know, sister, some people are just genuinely nice." 

"Mmm, and I'm sure the charitable tax write-offs are just, what, a perk?" 

"They don't think about that sort of thing. They just want to give people a chance to enjoy Christmas." 

"If you truly believe that, Jaime, you're as stupid as the sort of people they're apparently _looking after_." 

"At least they're _doing_ something!" 

"The Lannister Cooperation has given _hundreds of thousands_ to charitable causes in the past year alone, Jaime, don't be foolish." 

"And you accuse _them_ of virtue signalling! We only give that money because we have to, and you know it." 

"Does that matter? As long as the money is going to a good cause, what's the harm?" 

Jaime let his fork drop to his plate. "You don't _get it_." 

"Very erudite of you.” 

“In any case,” Tywin continued, as if the spat had never happened, “it’s good that she’s gone. I know you’ve taken some sort of _liking_ to her—” he said it as if the mere thought of being acquaintances with a woman like Brienne wanted to make him vomit “—but now you can get back to the _real_ world. One of my old colleagues is bringing his daughter tonight, I’d like you to meet her, Jaime.” 

Jaime stared down at his plate, the fine stem of the wine glass gripped in his hand. 

" _Jaime_." Tywin repeated, louder, the annoyance rising in his voice. 

"I… I have to go." He stood up, suddenly, the chair screeching across the tiled floor. Everyone stared up at him. 

"Excuse me?" Tywin remained seated, treating his son to a glare across the lit candles. 

"There's something I have to do." 

"If this is about that great _cow_ of a woman…" Cersei began, swirling her wine glass dismissively, but Jaime cut her off. 

"So what if it is? Why do you care?" 

"She's _completely_ beneath you, Jaime." 

"He wishes…" Tyrion muttered, snickering. 

" _Excuse me_?" Cersei spat at him, placing her glass back down on the table with such force that Jaime thought it would shatter. 

"Nothing, dear sister." Tyrion rose too, pushing the chair back beneath the table. "So what _is_ it you have to do, Jaime?" 

Jaime chewed on his lip. He wasn't, truly, sure. 

"I can't stay here. I _refuse_ to stay here a minute longer. I…" He looked at his father, at his sister's beautiful, furious face. "Tyrion. Are you coming with me?" 

Tyrion shrugged. "Anything for a little adventure. Or to get out of here." 

"Call a taxi. I need to say goodbye to the kids… then we're leaving." 

"Anywhere specific?" Tyrion reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out, ready to dial. 

"The airport." 

Tyrion grinned. "Right away, Ser." 

"Jaime, you _can't—_ " Tywin began, now rising himself, finally meeting him eye-to-eye. 

"Actually, I can." 

"She is absolutely and completely unsuitable." 

"I don't give a shit, actually. Because I—" He stopped himself at the last moment, his jaw clamping shut, keeping the words trapped in his mouth. 

They were all staring at him, Cersei's face a picture of rage, Tywin cool and calm, Tyrion enraptured, delighted. 

"Because you _what_?" The acid in Cersei's voice could have melted a hole in the table. 

Jaime could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing. He felt like he was going to be sick. There was nothing for it, really. 

"I love her." He said it quietly, at first, like he could barely believe it himself – a whispered confession to the floor, to his feet, to the still air. 

" _What_?" 

"I love her." He looked up, now suddenly sure of himself, full of a fizzing, bubbling emotion that tingled in the tips of his fingers. "I love her!" He was shouting it, now, shouting it across the table at their stunned faces. Tyrion burst out laughing before pressing a number into the phone and holding it to his ear, shaking his head. 

"What do you propose you're going to _do_ , exactly? Just swan over there and… what?" Tywin's hands gripped the edge of the table. Jaime had never seen him like this before, but now the truth was out and there was no stopping him. 

"I'm going to tell her. I'm going to find her, and tell her, and…" 

"You should ask her to marry you!" Whispered Tyrion, one hand clamped over the mouthpiece of the phone. 

"I…yes!" He pointed at Tyrion, caught up in the moment, "I'll do that! I'll ask her to marry me!" 

Cersei stood, knocking the table, spilling the wine in huge, red plumes across the golden tablecloth. "Don't be _absurd_." 

"No, I'm done with… with all this." He gestured to the table, to the room, the spreading wine stain. "I'm going to be absurd, and in love, and… and you can't stop me. Neither of you can stop me." 

He stalked away from the table, quickly followed by Tyrion, and then after a brief moment the rest of the family. He pushed his way through the hallway and upstairs towards the second spare bedroom. 

"Make sure that taxi is coming by the time I'm done, Tyrion!" He called down the stairs as he sprinted up them, two at a time. Tyrion saluted, and leant against the wall to watch the ensuing chaos. 

Jaime swung open the door to his room. His things – his cases, his clothes – were still on his bed, but he ignored them and instead grabbed the huge paper bags he'd hidden beneath it. He was about to leave, when he spotted his phone, still charging on the bedside table. He grabbed that too, and the charger, shoving them into his pocket. 

Satisfied, he threw himself back down the stairs, the bags in his good hand. 

As he reached the last step, the rest of the family still waiting next to the bannister, he paused, calling out. 

"Kids! Hey, Tommen, Marcy, where are you?" 

The confused faces of his niece and nephew appeared in the other doorway. 

"What's going on?" Asked Tommen, looking nervously at the adults. 

"Your uncle is leaving," said Cersei, sharply. "Say goodbye." 

"You're leaving?" Marcella looked at him, worriedly. 

"I… yeah." 

"When will you be back?" 

Jaime looked at his father, his expression unreadable. 

"I'm not sure. Soon, I hope. Here…" he extended the bags towards them, which Marcella grabbed. "There's your Christmas presents. Sorry I won’t be here to see you open them.” 

He was about to turn away and head towards the door, when a sudden thought came to him. He looked down at the hand. It was a stupid, useless thing – designed more for flash than any true practical use. In a second, he was struggling out of his dinner jacket, catching it on the awkward hand, then throwing the jacket towards Tyrion. He pulled up his sleeve and started to unhook the terrible thing, the straps falling away beneath his fingers. 

"What _are_ you—" 

He pulled the hand off and thrust it towards Cersei, who took it with a shocked, disgusted expression. 

"What do you think you're—" 

"That's not me. Keep it, burn it, give it to the dogs, whatever. I don't care." 

He turned to the children, ready to apologise, but Cersei cut over him. 

"Say goodbye, children. I highly doubt you'll be seeing your uncle again." 

"What?" Tommen stared at her with his huge eyes. 

"He's making… a very foolish decision." She stared at Jaime, now, refusing to break eye contact. "He's letting us all down tremendously." 

"But… is it… was it us?" Marcella's voice quavered. "Is it after… after Joff?" 

"Oh, sweetling." Cersei bent down and stroked her daughter's hair. "No, it's not your fault." She turned back to Jaime. "Your uncle just… doesn't love us like he did." 

"That's not—" he began, but Tywin cut him off. 

"I hope you know what you're doing, Jaime. To the _family_." 

He looked down at the children, at their hurt faces. Tommen had silent tears spilling down his face. 

"You can't—" 

"No, Jaime, _you_ can't. This is _your_ choice to make, as you've so thoughtfully reminded us all." 

It was like a pit in his stomach. He stared at his father – his cold, hard eyes boring into him. Perhaps he was being irrational. Perhaps… perhaps he could cope with them, could deal with them all, to keep the family whole; locked together in their own private miseries. 

He dropped his gaze. He flexed his fingers. They tingled, slightly. 

And then he thought of her – her freckled face, her wide lips, her scars – all of her. And there were fireworks in his chest. 

"No." He took a deep breath, filling his lungs, feeling the fog that had clouded his vision and swarmed his mind melt away. "No. This is you. This is all you." 

He turned on his heel and walked away, down the maze of corridors, towards the huge oak front door. 

"Jaime!" Someone was calling him, but he didn't turn. He could hear Tyrion's hurried footsteps behind him. One of the children – he couldn’t tell which – was sobbing. 

He reached the door and twisted it open. He was hit with a blast of cold air, whipping up his hair, making his nose sting. From behind, there was a noisy sniff. 

"I _hate_ Uncle Jaime." 

He paused. It was like a knife – like an icicle – in his heart. 

No. No; he needed to do this. 

He stepped out of the house and into the bright, winter light, Tyrion quick on his heels. A taxi pulled up outside the house as the door slammed shut behind them. 

~ 

Tyrion confirmed with the driver that they were headed to the airport while Jaime pulled out his phone, thankful that he’d left the bloody thing charging upstairs. He tried to unlock it with a shaking finger, the pattern wrong again and again and _again—_

He finally got the thing open. He already had three missed calls and as many voicemails, and he quickly rejected another before pulling open the browser and starting to search for flights, his hand shaking as he balanced the phone on his knee. It slid from his grip and he swore, feeling harried, then grabbed the phone and tossed it towards Tyrion, who grabbed it easily. 

“Tarth, I presume?” He said, already typing. 

Jaime nodded, a little concerned that if he actually said anything out loud he might be sick. He watched as Tyrion navigated the website, his eyes growing large. 

“Holy _shit_ , Jaime,” he said, “There’s only one seat left.” He whistled through his teeth. “First class. Fuck me, it’s expensive. Can you afford it?” 

“Let me see.” He peered over Tyrion’s shoulder. “Fuck.” 

“Or we could charge it to dear daddy’s account?” 

“Like he’s not on the phone to the bank _right now_ cutting us both off.” 

Tyrion snorted, but his expression was serious. “ _Can_ you afford this?” 

Jaime dug in his breast pocket, pulling out his wallet. “Probably,” he said, “and if not, that’s why my overdraft exists. Just fucking buy it before someone else does…” 

Tyrion complied, punching in Jaime’s details as Jaime watched, anxiety twisting his stomach into knots. It was an _absurd_ amount of money. What if it was a waste? What if he turned up, lost and alone in a place he’d never even been to before, and she turned him down? What if she told him to fuck off? 

“Done,” Tyrion said, handing the phone back to him. “Easy. Even if you’re living off bread and noodles for the next six months…” 

The phone began to ring again, and Jaime quickly rejected the call before turning it on mute. 

“They won’t stop ringing you, you know.” Said Tryion, carefully. 

“I know.” 

“Will you answer?” 

“Not till this is done.” 

“It’s a shame there’s only one seat,” said Tyrion, almost conversationally. “I’d have liked to come along and see what happens.” 

“I need someone here to keep an eye on father. And Cersei.” He was suddenly struck with the mental image of the dozens of awful things they could do before the plane had even landed. “Shit, d’you think they’ll—” 

“Don’t think about that.” 

“But—” 

“Jaime! If you spend the next three hours panicking about what they _might_ do you’ll be dead by the time you reach Tarth.” 

Jaime groaned, dropping his head to his knees. 

“You’d tell me if this was a bad idea, right?” He mumbled. 

“No,” Tyrion laughed. 

“Urgh…” Jaime suddenly had a thought. “Shit,” he said, still speaking to his knees. “I left my suitcase behind…” 

“We can turn around?” 

“No, fuck it.” Jaime sat up, peering out of the window. “I’m not going back.” 

“Ah yes: women famously loved unwashed men wearing a two day old suit.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Oh, you’ll be fine. She’s seen you looking worse, I’m sure.” 

She had - in fact, Brienne had seen more of Jaime in various states of dishevelment than she ever had him well-dressed and styled. 

“So,” Tyrion leant back, a little smile on his face. “What’s your plan?” 

“My plan?” 

“You’ve _got_ to have a plan, surely?” 

“Um…” 

“Do you even know where she’ll be? Where her dad’s pub is?” 

_Fuck_. “...No.” 

“Gods, Jaime, you’re an awful romantic lead, did you know that?” Tyrion pulled his own phone out of his pocket, and started to Google. “Selwyn, right? Selwyn Tarth?” 

“How do you even know that?” 

Tyrion shrugged. “I like to know things. And I knew as soon as she turned up that there was _something_ going on, so I did a little digging…” He scrolled through the results, brow furrowed. “There we go. Selwyn Tarth, successful owner of a chain of pubs… Oh, lucky you Jaime, they’re all within a few hours of each other. Right, I’m going to send you the details…” 

Jaime watched as his own phone began to light up as Tyrion sent him the names and locations of the pubs. There were only five, thankfully, but even then it seemed an overwhelming, insurmountable barrier. 

“I’m not sure which is the flagship,” said Tyrion, locking his phone, “but you’ll find it eventually. Pub crawl for love, how romantic.” 

Jaime felt himself blushing, feeling foolish. “I… Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome. In exchange, you have to name the first baby after me.” 

Jaime shoved him. “Shut up.” Tyrion just laughed. 

“You _have_ to promise to keep me updated,” he said, “tell me when you land, and when you find her. And I’ll keep you in the loop about _them_.” He nodded at Jaime’s phone, at the growing number of unread messages. “And for the love of god, don’t read any of their texts, okay?” 

“Okay,” Jaime sighed. “Gods. Tyrion, I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. I should have just _waited_ , she said she’d come to visit me in the New Year…” 

“Do you truly love her, Jaime?” 

He paused. He did - of course he did. He’d been denying it for months and hiding it for weeks and it had spilled out of him, like water bursting through a dam. 

“I… yes.” 

“Then it’s the right thing to do. And it’s dreadfully romantic, of course.” 

“What if she tells me to fuck off?” 

“Then you fuck off with dignity, knowing that you tried.” 

~ 

Tyrion waved Jaime off at the airport, hanging from the window of the idling cab, before turning around and - Jaime assumed - heading straight back to their father’s house to watch the ensuing fireworks. The airport was quieter than he’d expected, and he managed to get through check-in without a lot of fuss, the whole process expedited by his total lack of luggage. By the time he’d made it through security - nearly leaving his shoes on the conveyor belt in his nervousness - he was rattling with panic. 

He’d bounced between feeling like this was the greatest idea he’d ever had and the worst choice anyone had made, ever, since getting out of the taxi. The flight wasn’t actually leaving for another hour, and he sat nursing a coffee as he watched the flight announcements flash across the huge screens, the caffeine doing absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. 

Finally, his flight was called. He stood in the queue, trying to ignore the urge to bounce on his feet, waiting to get let on the plane. 

The first-class seat he’d been forced to buy _was_ luxurious, he had to admit. The extra space - not to mention the free champagne - did wonders to calm his frayed nerves. He sat in the wide seat, legs bouncing, twisting the in-flight magazine between his hands. 

“Are you alright, sir?” 

He looked up. A member of the cabin crew with a shock of bright red hair, was peering at him, a kind smile on her face. He must look a mess, he realised. 

“I… fine, yes.” 

“Are you a nervous flyer?” 

He peered down at the nearly destroyed managazine in his hands. “Ah…” 

“That’s alright, sir. Lots of people aren’t fond of flying.” 

“No, it’s not that, I…” he looked up at her broad smile - too sincere to be a faked customer service simper. And then it all spilled out in a rush. “I bought the last ticket on this flight to go and tell my friend I’m in love with her. On Christmas Eve.” 

Her eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, that’s so lovely!” 

“It’s fucking _terrifying_ is what it is.” 

“She doesn’t know you’re on your way?” 

“No!” 

She grinned. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure. Would you like me to find you another magazine?” 

He laughed. “No, no. It’s fine. Thank you.” 

Once they’d departed, and the seatbelt signs had flicked off, she brought him an extra glass of champagne. 

~ 

It felt like an age between the plane landing and him finally being allowed to disembark. By the time he stood, his legs were shaking, and he rose from his seat feeling lightheaded. As he passed by the cabin crew, they grinned at him, and the woman who had served him earlier gave him a whispered _good luck!_ as he made his way past. 

It was truly dark, now, and the air in Tarth was chilly and fresh, blown in from the sea. He grabbed the first cab he could find waiting outside the building and slid into the back seat, pulling up the list of pubs on his phone. 

“Where to?” Said the cabby, peering over his shoulder at him. 

“Ah, fuck…” Jaime scrolled through the list, frowning. “I don’t know.” 

The driver fully turned around to look at him. “You what?” 

“Look,” Jaime presented the man with his phone, who looked at it with a frown. “I’m looking for someone. She’ll be at one of _these_ pubs, but I don’t know which.” 

“You’re saying you need someone to drive you around bloody Tarth all night till you find the right pub?” 

“That’s about it, yes.” 

“Why?” 

_Fuck_. Did he _have_ to tell everyone? 

“To tell the woman I love that I’m in love with her.” 

The cabby burst out laughing. “You love her but you don’t know where she is?” 

“Nope.” 

“Forgive me, Ser, but is this some kinda wind-up?” 

“I fucking _wish_. Look, will you help me? I don’t even know where these places are…” 

The driver took Jaime’s phone and looked at the names, thoughtfully. 

“Right,” he said, finally. “We can loop around the city, then double back. That’ll hit all of them. These two—” he pointed, “—are in the city centre, get them done at the same time. The others are all on the edge, family pubs, you know the kind. We’ll start in the city then head to the others. Sound good?” 

Jaime relaxed. “Sounds amazing.” 

“It’ll cost you, you know.” 

“I figured,” Jaime laughed. “Do you take cards?” 

“Luckily for you, I do,” said the driver. “Right…” 

He plugged the names of the various pubs into his GPS as Jaime sat back and pulled on the seatbelt, then passed the phone back to him. 

“I feel,” he said, as Jaime tucked his phone back into his pocket, “that I should make sure you know what you’re doing.” 

“No idea at all,” said Jaime. 

“Excellent.” 

And he pulled away from the airport. 

~ 

Tarth city centre was heaving with life. People were out in droves celebrating Christmas Eve, and the cab was finding itself stuck in traffic jams throughout the city. Jaime had jumped out at a red light at the behest of the driver, who’d pointed towards a tall, thin building which was apparently his first destination. The driver promised to meet him around the back, as soon as he could get through the traffic. 

Jaime made his way through the doors. This was more of a club than a pub, he realised, with loud music playing from the speakers and hundreds of extremely drunk revellers. There was a woman at the door wearing a pair of antlers with a clicker and a little stamp, who greeted him as he entered. 

“Good evening!” She said cheerily, the antlers wobbling. “Here on your own? You’re in luck, we’re about to reach capacity.” 

She gestured at him with the stamp, and Jaime peered over her shoulder at the crush of people inside. 

“Actually,” he said, “I’m looking for someone. Ah - Brienne? She’s the daughter of the guy who owns this place, I think.” 

The woman frowned at him. “Oh, yes. I know Bri. But she’s not here tonight.” 

“Any idea where she might be?” 

The woman shook her head. “Sorry. But if you leave a number I can tell her you came by when I next see her?” 

“I need to find her tonight. It’s important. Thanks anyway, though.” 

He turned to leave, but the woman called after him. “Hold on!” 

“Yes?” 

“Just… is everything alright?” 

“Oh, fine,” he said dismissively, keen not to repeat the conversation he’d had twice already. 

“Okay. Alright, good.” She smiled. “I hope you find her!” 

He sighed. “Me too.” 

The cab driver had been good to his word, and Jaime found him in the tiny carpark around the back of the building. The first stop a bust, they’d set off to the next pub, fifteen minutes down the road in the busy festive traffic. 

The story was much the same here - another bar, a little less busy than the first. The man on the door, wearing a cheap-looking Santa hat, had raised his eyebrows when Jaime said he was looking for Brienne. 

“She’s not here this evening,” he said, apologetically. “Do you want to leave a numb—” 

“No,” Jaime said quickly, “It’s fine. Thanks.” 

He was getting tired of the city, and was glad when the driver pulled away from the main streets towards the third pub. 

“No luck?” He called over his shoulder. 

“None at all,” said Jaime, watching people drunkenly stagger down the path outside. 

“We’ll find her.” 

The next pub was clearly transitioning from daytime to evening service. This one was a lot larger than the other two, with a haphazard looking DJ booth being set up in one corner. With no one on the door, Jaime simply walked in and headed to the bar. At the other end, a little gaggle of staff was crowded around a phone, gossiping about something. 

A barman looked up, noticing Jaime standing there, and then - absurdly - did a double take. 

Jaime frowned to himself, wondering what was going on, as the barman extracted himself from the group and walked towards him. 

“Hi!” He said, all forced cheeriness. “Ah - what can I get you?” 

Jaime was very aware that he was being watched by the rest of the staff, too. 

“Actually,” he said, leaning on the bar and putting on his best Lannister smile, “I’m looking for someone. I was wondering if you could help.” 

The barman’s eyes darted for a second back to the rest of the staff. He was clearly biting back a giggle. 

“Of course,” he said, with an affable grin. “What’s her name?” 

Jaime peered back to the group at the other end of the bar. The phone was out once more. _Ah_. 

“Brienne,” he said, biting back the urge to swear at the man, at the group so clearly laughing at him. “I think her father owns this place.” 

“Yeah, I know Bri,” said the man, far too casually for Jaime’s taste. “She’s not here, sorry.” 

“Shit.” 

It had slipped out unconsciously, the Lannister mask slipping a little. The barman raised his eyebrows. “Do you want me to—” 

Jaime sighed. “Like I said in the last place. I need to find her this evening. Thanks anyway.” 

By the fourth pub, he was already prepared for the curious looks of the bar staff and the enthusiastic greeting. He stalked through a group of students wearing penguin onesies and leant on the bar. 

“Look,” he said, as a pair of twenty-something bar staff approached him, “Yes: I _am_ here looking for Brienne. Her dad—” 

“Owns the pub, yeah,” said the first. 

“I’m guessing she’s not here?” 

“Nope,” said the second. “Sorry.” 

“Fucks _sake_.” Jaime couldn’t be bothered to hide his disappointment, now. He felt like a laughing stock. 

“She’ll be at The Bear, though.” 

“What?” 

“The Bear. That’s Selwyn’s flagship location, the biggest. If she’s not nowhere else, she’ll be there.” 

The Bear. Jaime recognised that - it was the last on his list, the furthest out of the city. 

“You’re sure?” He asked, aware he was looking a little desperate. 

“Well, I can’t be _sure_ ,” the first one continued, “but… well, if she’s _at_ one of the pubs, it’ll be there. If she’s working this evening, that is. If not,” they shrugged, “she could be anywhere.” 

“Right,” said Jaime, drumming his fingers on the sticky bartop. “Good.” He turned to leave, and then caught himself. “Thanks.” 

The pair behind the bar grinned at him, and feeling like someone was already updating the group chat on his whereabouts, he slipped from the pub and back into the taxi. 

~ 

As they drove further away from the city centre, towards The Bear, Jaime was feeling worried again. Suppose she _wasn’t_ there? He would have gone on a wild goose chase around the city, wasting time - and not an insubstantial amount of money - on nothing. If she _wasn’t_ there, he wasn’t sure what his next step would be. He supposed he’d have to look for her father, or someone who knew where _he_ was - but what person would give the details of their employer to some random, disheveled looking man who clearly, by now, had made his way to the staff group chat? 

The last pub was a huge, family-friendly establishment in the middle of a nice-looking estate. The taxi driver pulled into the carpark, turning off the engine and twisting around. 

“Want me to wait?” 

Jaime peered out the window at the yellow light spilling from the pub windows, the silhouettes of people moving around inside. It looked warm and welcoming and terrifying all at once. 

“No,” he said, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. “If she’s not there, I’ll need a fucking drink. How much do I owe you?” 

The cabby gave a low whistle as the amount flashed up on the little display. Jaime hissed. 

“Ouch. Fine. Worth it, I suppose.” 

He paid, the driver thanking him - and wishing him luck - before stepping out of the taxi into the cold, busy car park. 

_Right._

He headed straight for the pub, trying to ignore the sudden thundering in his chest, the way his feet felt determined to stick to the floor. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and was immediately hit with warmth and sound, the space beyond the little foyer filled with people drinking and eating and celebrating the season. 

There was a woman waiting at the door - and if he didn’t know better, he’d say she was waiting there for him. As he entered the foyer, she quickly shoved a phone in her pocket and grabbed a clipboard and stack of menus from the little serving table next to her. 

She grinned at him. 

Oh, gods. Word travelled fast via Whatsapp, apparently. 

“So,” she said, cocking her hip to lean her weight on one leg. “Are you the guy who’s been looking for Brienne?” 

Jaime sighed. “Yes.” 

She grinned, eyes twinkling. 

“She’s behind the bar.” 

It was like the world had dropped out from under his feet. This was it. _Shit_. He should turn around. He should run back into the carpark and chase down the taxi before it got away. He should get back on a plane and go back to King’s Landing and forget this had happened, forget about these stupid, irrational feelings and pretend to be happy and, and— 

The woman raised her eyebrows at him. “So are you coming in, then?” 

“...Yeah.” 

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. He drifted into the room beyond, not sure what he was going to say - not sure what he was going to _do_. The main room of the pub was wide, a well-stocked, right-angled bar right in the centre, a queue three people deep all around it. 

He could feel the eyes of the woman who’d greeted him on his back as he stepped forward. There was a shift in the crowd - an older man pushing through the crush with a couple of pints in his hands - and suddenly, there she was. 

His initial reaction, under the usual circumstances, might have been to laugh. He’d never imagined, not even in his wildest dreams, Brienne _actually_ pulling pints. 

He watched her, probably for too long, without saying anything. He watched the way she managed to pour a perfect pint every time, the ease with which she chatted to those waiting at the bar, the way she laughed - almost constantly laughing, her eyes sparkling. 

There was tinsel tied haphazardly around her head, and she was wearing a rather garish Christmas jumper. 

She looked beautiful. 

And then, finally, the person she was serving moved away and as her eyes swept the bar looking for the next customer they landed, insead, on him. 

“Jaime?” 

He couldn’t hear her voice over the hum of the pub, but he saw the way her lips moved, clearly forming his name. Her expression of confusion quickly melded into one of relief - perhaps, if he let himself believe it, even joy. 

The people waiting to be served spotted her expression and turned too, peering to look at the newcomer. Jaime suddenly felt on the spot, the centre of an unexpected performance. It went very quiet, apart from the tinny christmas music playing across the speakers. 

“I…” he looked around at the people watching him - staff and customers - with curious expressions. “I just… wanted to see you.” 

Brienne frowned, then moved around to the hatch in the bar, lifting it and making her way through the queuing people towards him. 

“What’s going on?” 

Everyone was watching him. Or perhaps he was just imagining that everyone was watching. 

“Nothing,” he said, quickly. “I mean. I just…” 

“Yes?” 

“I wanted to… to wish you a Merry Christmas, I suppose.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve already done that.” 

“So I have.” 

“Jaime, what—” 

He cut her off in a rush. “I love you. I’m _in_ love with you. I’m so stupidly in love with you that I spent an absurd amount of money to fly here and even more on a cab trying to find you, even though I _really_ could have done this over the phone, or just waited until I saw you again, and—” 

“ _Jaime_.” 

He fell silent, face burning, as she strode to close the space between them. He thought she was about to say something, the way her mouth twitched, to tell him he was foolish or brush him off or perhaps, in a wild spark of hope, reciprocate. 

But she didn’t say anything. 

Instead, she kissed him. 

_Oh_. 

He’d never really _imagined_ what kissing Brienne might be like, too convinced that he was wrong. It had felt dangerous to indulge such a fantasy, even when he was alone, even when he knew no one would ever know. To have done so would have been to suspect there was a chance that it might have happened - and to accept that he wanted it to happen, too. 

Her lips were large and soft against his, and while it was clear that she wasn’t the most experienced kisser in Westeros it was - it was like magic. Her hands gripped the side of his face and he found himself reaching around her waist, pulling her closer, till their bodies were flush together. 

When they broke apart, they were both breathless, Brienne’s face pink, her lips shining. 

Around them, the pub erupted, and it wasn’t just the adrenaline and the rush of finally knowing what Brienne’s lips felt like that was making Jaime blush. 

She pulled away and shooed at those closest to them - clearly regulars - telling them in no uncertain terms to piss off. They grumbled at her, but at least they complied, moving back to the bar or the seats, apparently well-entertained. 

“Sorry,” she said, turning back. “You… you picked a _great_ night to do this, Jaime.” 

His hands were still wrapped around her waist, and he tugged her closer again. “I’m not apologising. Anway: it’s Christmas. My understanding is that you’re supposed to tell people you’re in love with them at Christmas.” 

She smiled. “Gods, you’re not becoming a romantic, are you?” 

“Only for you.” 

She snorted. “ _Jaime,_ please.” She paused, trapping her lip beneath her teeth, her face flaming red. “I love you too.” 

She said it quietly - almost a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear. 

“You know,” he pressed his forehead against hers, his hand finally leaving her waist to rest against her cheek. “I made a bit of a scene when I left.” 

“Why is that easy to believe?” 

“I told them I was going to propose to you.” 

She laughed, quietly, and he felt her breath puffing against his lips. “Don’t ruin it.” 

“So I’ll take that as a _no_..?” 

Her hands tightened around his waist and she kissed him, just once: soft and gentle. “Take that as a _not yet_.” 


End file.
